


Red Ranger

by Blucifer, Bluniverse



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bodega AU, Bodega Cat Minho, Cat Boy Minho, Cat/Human Hybrids, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blucifer/pseuds/Blucifer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluniverse/pseuds/Bluniverse
Summary: You’re not supposed to, under any circumstances, what-so-ever have sex dreams about your cat.  It’s fine though, because Chan’s just going to shuffle the four steps from his doorway into the bathroom and jerk off in the shower to the thoughts of 100% human, 0% cat, men.





	Red Ranger

Everyone in the neighborhood has their opinion of Minho. Minho gets distracted by unattended glasses of water and bats them to the side when they’ve offended him. Minho hops from the top of the neighbor’s fence and heaves himself inside through the open kitchen window sending his mother’s potted plants crashing into the sink.  Minho leaves the house knowing full well that the back-door locks automatically. No sooner than he gets a few steps into the alleyway, he meowls to be let back in. Never mind the fact that he has a copper colored house key on a string tied around his neck, and he can come and go as he pleases.  Minho screams down the alley in the dead of night to announce that he’s come home.

What Chan’s really trying to say is that he’d be pressed to find anyone in the neighborhood that didn’t think Minho was annoying.

Everyone in the neighborhood has an opinion of Minho. He visits the neighborhood’s grandmothers, Mrs. Elle and Mrs. Beatrice, on days when the weather is nice, and drinks tea with them in the garden. He’s been known to show up in the town square for tai-chi lessons in the morning, so much so that he’s asked about when he’s not there. In the summer, when the kids are out of school, he plays baseball with them in the park. Then, he lets the kids pet his velvety soft ears, so long as they don’t pull his tail.

Everyone in the neighborhood has an opinion of Minho. The same people that curse him to filth for being a nuisance treat him to fried shrimp, or bags of potato chips, just because they can. He’d be pressed to find anyone in the neighborhood who didn’t love him despite his numerous flaws.

“Haven’t seen Minho in a while,” Mr. Kim says blandly as he uses the corner of his teeth to rip open a bag of chips, never mind the fact that they have a pair of scissors attached to the counter with a long strand of string. “What’s he getting into?”

Mr. Kim stands to the side to let a small army of middle school girls come through with enough cans of diet coke to keep them up all night and enough candy to send a diabetic into a coma. Maybe the coke and the candy will cancel each other out.

“Oh, you know.” Chan’s on register today. It’s Saturday, and he asked his mom for time off so he could hit up open mic night uptown…She says she’ll show by nine so he can go. In the end, it doesn’t matter so much, he needs the scratch. “He’s off—” Import tariffs on Yeezy’s aren’t cheap, and he needs a pair of Oreos like those girls need those sleeves of Oreos. “On another grand adventure.”

Minho comes, and Minho goes, sometimes for days at a time. Sometimes, he just sits down by the river until he smells like dead fish and mud. Sometimes, he just sleeps in the lace and white doily guest bedrooms of the little old ladies that he charms getting chubby on cookies and milk.

Other times, he takes his allowance and buys a train ticket to the next town over. Then he’ll spend a week down on the docks eating fish guts, does odd jobs, until he gets enough money to take the train home. Chan’s stopped wondering if he’ll come back. There’s something silent and something understood between them. Minho will come back when Minho’s ready.

“Maybe he’ll bring me a souvenir this time,” Chan says it with a smile, but it’s hollow and empty. “I could use a keychain.”

The fact of the matter is, Minho’s been gone for almost a month, and it’s never been that long before.

* * *

 “Do you really think you’re responsible enough?” But Mom’s got that inflection in her voice, shrill, authoritative, and pumped with false grit. She’s already made up her mind. He’ll have his way, so long as he plays along, and doesn’t even hint that he _knows_ she’s given in. “You killed your goldfish.”

“Um,” Chan runs his fingers through the back of his hair. It’s getting longer, and Mom will make him get it cut soon. “That was…a carnival fish. He was sick.”

“A cat is far more difficult to take care of than a goldfish.”

“Mom, I will,” in that moment, his starched school uniform feels rigid like wood. His tie feels like it’s choking him.

Mom reaches into her wine-colored Coach bag, extracts her pack of ultra-lights, and shakes out a single cigarette. “Okay,” strike up the lighter and the scent of butane burns the hairs of his nose. She walks out from behind the counter and into the aisle to where the shrimp chips are. “But you’re gonna need something better than a nasty roller grill hot dog if you want to get him out from behind that dumpster.”

* * *

Mrs. Liu walks into the store and Chan looks up from his phone with the chime of bells at the door. He can see where her eyes rest, and it’s not at the glass display from which he pulls cold sandwiches and rice balls. It’s not at the hot food display that rests on top, filled with chicken skewers and croquettes. No, she looks at the empty space along the top of the counter. Warm from the heat lamp, Minho often sprawls out on top of the counter, and sleeps Chan’s shifts away.

“Where’s Minho?”

“Out I guess.”

She furrows her brow like she thinks he doesn’t care. She couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I brought him some chicken livers,” she explains as she shakes a plastic shopping bag around her wrist. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Chan’s eyes drift behind the counter, past the ancient portable CRT television that he keeps on mute. Through the day, he catches sporadic frames of infomercials and afternoon news. Now? A television evangelist’s pleas for his soul are trapped inside the box.

Then, his gaze travels past the small mountain of chocolates he’s supposed to price and put upon the shelf. Of course, he hasn’t. Playing with his sampler between customers is far more rewarding. Finally, there’s nowhere else for his eyes to go, so they drift to the back office where they keep the cleaning supplies. On the floor is Chan’s old Red Power Ranger sleeping bag is crumpled into a pile on the floor. It’s Minho’s favorite place to sleep when the store is full of customers, and the store becomes unhospitable.

It’s empty. For all he knows, will stay empty.

“I don’t know,” and it becomes clear at this point she isn’t here to buy anything. “He always comes back though.”

* * *

“Hey,” whispered softly into his ear. Chan tries to open his eyes, but they’re glued shut by sleep. “Hey,” repeated gently. It’s still dark outside, has to be, because light isn’t pouring into his bedroom like it usually does. His bed is warm, and so is Minho next to him. There’s no reason to wake up.

Even if Chan wanted to move, he couldn’t. Minho’s got his head laid on Chan’s chest. Chan can feel his tail flicking back and forth against his calf, although he’s not certain if it’s in annoyance or excitement. Groggily, Chan moves his hand to the crown of Minho’s head, threads his fingers through his ears, and massages the delicate skin.

 “Hey,” more urgently now.

“What Minho?”

“You’re going to be late for school.”

Chan throws his blankets off of the bed, and jumps out, nearly tripping on his backpack. Where his own movements are clumsy and disjointed, Minho’s movements are graceful. His feet hit the carpet with a soft _thunk._ He rocks onto the balls of his feet, arches his back, and yawns with great satisfaction, tail flitting against Chan’s stomach.

Somewhere in the chaos, Chan finally notices the angry red numbers on his clock radio. 5:49 AM, a whole half hour before he usually gets up for school. “Minho!” Chan grabs a tube of Chapstick from his end table and throws it at the cat. This causes Minho to dart out of his bedroom but doesn’t scare Minho enough to make him race down the hall way.

“Well,” Minho hides his body behind the doorframe, but his eyes wide and mischievous peer into the room. “Since you’re up, you should make breakfast. Eggs and tofu?”

* * *

Chan takes the long way home after open mic, down several alley ways, and past the coffee shop that gives Minho free iced drinks whenever he wanders in.

It shouldn’t matter.

Minho always comes back.

It doesn’t stop Chan from carrying a package of dried squid jerky in his pocket all night, and it doesn’t stop him from ripping it open as he walks through the alleyways. He checks under every deck, and in every cranny. His battery is on 12%, but he uses the camera as a flashlight anyway.

His name is no louder than a whisper on Chan’s tongue, “Minho,” but if he were near he’d hear. Whether or not he’d come running is another.

* * *

When Chan dreams, he dreams of compact muscle against his body, and hands that are anything but delicate. Dry patches of skin, hastily torn hangnails, and bitten nails feel _so_ good. When Chan dreams, he dreams not of lips coated in lip-gloss, but the bob of an Adam’s apple and a generous cupid’s bow that takes his dick in inch by inch. When Chan dreams, he dreams of wrapping his lips around another cock, and he absolutely loves the feeling.

For the most part, he’s done with waking up in a cold sweat. He’s taken down the poster on his wall of the girl in a bikini on a Ferrari. His acceptance is quiet. Peaceful, to the point of being uneventful.

For the most part.

Because lately, the nameless faceless partner of his dreams? When he’s between Chan’s legs, Chan doesn’t just run his fingers through thick black hair, but takes time to fondle delicate, satiny ears. The hum that accompanies Chan’s cock being swallowed down is replaced by a deep rumbling purr. Something…No, he knows what it is, a tail, flicks against his thigh in partial annoyance and partial anticipation.

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

“Oh, my go-od.” Waking up is one thing, but waking up for his 8:00 AM class is something else entirely. Chan rolls to the side and reaches for his phone. Drops the phone to the floor, and sits up too quickly causing him to feel dizzy. “Damn.” That dizziness complements the sensation of his raging morning hard on _so_ nicely.

“Shit,” just to round it all out, because you’re not supposed to, under any circumstances, what-so-ever have sex dreams about your cat.  It’s fine though, because Chan’s just going to shuffle the four steps from his doorway into the bathroom and jerk off in the shower to the thoughts of 100% human, 0% cat, men.

Throwing back the comforter, Chan’s toes sink into the ivory shag carpet.

“Morning Chan.”

Raging boner, dizzy as hell, meets the feeling of his blood running ice cold.

Minho’s crouched on the carpet, just inches away, and Chan’s seen that look countless times before. Eyes blown wide, nostrils flared, Minho’s tail wiggles with nervous energy.

“Minho,” if he gets up now, there’s no way in hell Minho isn’t going to see his shame through his briefs. If he stays put?”

Chan isn’t afforded any additional time. Minho’s telescopic pupils dilate from wide to narrow. His grin, sloppy, and on the verge of laughter, explodes into cascade of giggles.

Minho pounces, pushes him back onto the bed, and lands right in his lap. Knuckles brush against skin and fabric, and Minho starts kneading, a habit he’s had ever since he was a kitten.

It’s at that exact moment that Chan’s soul ejects from his body. He just kind of hangs out for a little while, above him and Minho. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe he should dust his room. Kind of nasty up here with the cobwebs by the ceiling.

Minho makes a soft, startled mewling sound at the same time as his knuckles graze Chan’s cock. The slight touch activates some kind of strange, vortex portal that tugs his soul back into his body, and oh god no, just let him die. If you’re not supposed to have sex dreams about your cat, your cat’s really not supposed to touch your dick.

The sound that Chan makes is something caught between a gasp and a moan.

Minho’s eyes go wide once more, and his body freezes. He pulls back slowly at first, and then turns and darts out of Chan’s room so quickly that Chan can barely process what’s going on until he hears the crash of Minho getting caught on the floor rug and whipping around to slide into the kitchen.

“Minho—” What would he say? What could he say if Minho were still here?

* * *

When Chan came home, he saw Mom going through the close down activities. Naturally, the only thing he could do was wrestle the mop from her hand and tell her to go home. For maybe, the first time ever, she listened. Once the store smelled like Pinesol and the murky mop water was streaked across the linoleum floor, Chan dumped the mop bucket out into the alley…and never went back inside.

So here he sits in the doorframe, looking into the alleyway like it’s something new and something beautiful to look at, and not something ugly he’s seen every single day of his life. The dumpster outside of the Vietnamese restaurant is overflowing. The mop bucket sits upturned in the middle of the alleyway. Shards of brown and green bottle glass are ground into the gravel and create an unfinished, unwanted mosaic. Every thump and every rustle makes him whip his head to the side.

When his butt has fallen asleep on rough concrete, when his phone finally dies, and there’s nothing left to do, he rises, and grabs the upturned mop bucket from the middle of the alleyway.

That’s when he hears a cry loud, garbled, and so familiar, _“Rwraawr.”_

“Minho?” Chan isn’t even sure what direction that the cry comes from, all he does is run. Gravel and glass crunch underfoot. The cries continue, echoing through the alleyway, and causing other, feral cats to cry back in response.

“ _Meoo-ch-“_

“Where are you Minho?” Neon light catches in the shadows and plays tricks on his eyes. Chan rounds the corner too fast, tumbles on the balls of his feet, and skids forward.

In the darkness, Chan can’t see the face of the person that he crashes into, but the whipping tail gives him away “ _Chan,”_ is tugged from the back of his throat, as if it were painful. 

“Minho,” so low and so soft, its all Chan can muster, because it feels like the air has been all knocked out of him.  The sound of their names upon each other’s tongues meld together in a single, clunky sound.     

Tension, heavy and tangible wraps around his neck like a barbed choke collar attached to a thick iron chain, keeps him from reaching out to Minho. But god, does he want to.

He’s wearing one of Chan’s old t-shirts, tie-dyed and torn down the front. Pants? Minho’s not wearing any, but a pair of briefs are stretched across his hips.

Just like he looked nine, or ten years ago when they first met, Minho’s eyes are blown so wide that the place where pupil and iris meet blend together into one void of a glance. In that all meaning is lost for Chan. But this time? This time, Chan doesn’t have to lure him out from behind the dumpster.

Minho’s skin is slick with sweat. Lights from the street shine down upon Minho’s body and make his skin shine with an ethereal glow. His chest heaves, up-down-up, as if he’d been running. “Hey, um..I lost my key. Can I come home?”

* * *

“Hi there,” Chan sets down the stringy pieces of squid jerky onto the pavement. He can’t see much back behind the dumpster, except for two reflective brown eyes staring back at him. “Do you want something to eat?”

Chan steps away, and he waits. And he waits. Then he waits some more. He clears four levels on Candy Crush, and when the better part of an hour has elapsed, he’s ready to go inside and give up.

No sooner than his fingers brush against the doorknob, the rustle-pop of movement near the dumpster draws him back out into the alleyway. An arm darts out, grabs the squid, and then calls in a voice that’s louder and more defiant than anyone hiding behind a dumpster should be, “do you have any ice cream?”

* * *

 

No sooner than Minho speaks, the thick heavy chain of tension is cut. Sprung free from the burden, Chan lurches forward. Chan no longer has the luxury of feeling fear, embarrassment, or shame. His fingers thread into Minho’s thick black hair. “Minho.” With the palm of his hand he rubs at Minho’s velvet soft ear. “I missed you.”

The sound that Minho makes is like something from the best of his very worst dreams. Chan can feel the soft squeak of, “ _meow,”_ and the very sound sends a single electric jolt from the tip to the root of his cock.

Minho’s tongue is rough. Chan knows this. Minho’s licked him plenty of times when Chan wasn’t paying attention, or when Chan ate something tasty with his fingers. Minho’s tongue is rough, but feels brand new when he and Minho’s lips crash together. Minho traces the line of his lips, and Chan parts his lips for Minho. The strange friction of Minho’s tongue pushes him somewhere strange and wonderful.

Minho purrs with his whole body. His chest hums against Chan’s chest. Where their lips are joined, Chan’s lips tingle with the very hint of vibration. Minho smells sour like sweat and the city. His breath is bad, and Chan doesn’t want to begin to think about what he’s been eating.

But Chan chases it anyway, for fear that Minho will slip through his fingers once more. Minho whimpers into his mouth, and Chan’s teeth graze against plump lips. He can feel that Minho’s hard, and it’s comforting really, that he’s not the only one whose gotten worked up just from kissing.

When they part, Minho’s chapped lips, slick with their comingled spit, makes a sharp _smack_ sound that coils in his gut…He has to know “Minho.”

Minho looks at him with those same unblinking, blown wide eyes. It’s the kind of look that implies that his whole everything rests in Chan’s shaking hands.

“I-I want this, I really-“ Oh god, he’s ruining this. He’s ruining this so bad. “Really want this but,” There’s the undeniable fact that something’s wrong. Minho never leaves for this long. Minho was hard before they even started kissing. Other than kneading his crotch through his pants, which he’s done for years now, Minho never expressed any indication that he wanted Chan. It’s more than just a little bit strange that the string Minho wore around his neck for years with the key to the apartment was ripped from his neck, and that he wears no pants.

Something, no matter how slight it may be, is very, very wrong. “You have to tell me where you were.”

Minho’s slack jawed expression twists into a slow half smile, as if it took him a minute to remember how expressions worked. “It’s embarrassing,” and Minho buries his face into Chan’s shoulders. Kitten licks on his neck are designed to melt the question away.

It almost works. Each swipe of Minho’s tongue sends a jolt through his body, and makes him rock against Minho.

But Chan’s not content to simply let him have control. He wraps his hand wrapped around Minho’s middle, and grips firmly at the base of Minho’s tail. Scratches at the base of his tail act as something like a truth serum. “Minho-”

“I’m in heat Chan,” is torn from his throat, a reluctant confession that seems so obvious now. “Maybe it started the other day when I jumped in your lap,” Minho’s voice is so quiet, almost a whisper. Sharp claws dig into his shirt and scratch at his skin. The fever hot drag of Minho’s nails breaking skin sends an eerie chill down his spine. “I really need you.”  

* * *

Chan fumbles for the keys to the case back behind the register where they keep the lube and the condoms. He thumbs through this key ring a dozen times a day, past the brass keys to the front and back door to the apartment, the key to his Honda, the key to the convenience store. It’s little, silver, and _always_ right there when he never needs it, the ring getting caught on his other keys. So, where the hell is it now? “Shit.”

 “Hurry up,” Minho orders from the back room.

“We need _something._ ” With shaky hands he _finally_ extracts the key from the keyring, tries to put it into the lock, fails, flips it over, and fails once again. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I need you to fuck me.”

The key slides into the lock at the same time that Chan looks up from the case and into the back room, and what he sees takes his breath away. Minho’s got the Red Power Ranger comforter all bunched up around his legs. The tie-dye shirt is long ago discarded, landing on a pallet of energy drinks. One leg still in his underwear, and one leg out, Minho kneels on all fours and presents himself to Chan.

“Oh my g-,” but he never completes the other half of the syllable, “od,” so the statement just hangs there awkwardly in the air. 

Realization is heavy. Like a shackle chained tight to the ankle, it drags you down into the sea of truth. As Chan’s hand gropes around the case without guidance reaching for a bottle of lube and a box condoms he’s not going to use unless Minho tells him to, realization hits him like a freight train.  

“Fuck me Chan.” Minho’s still on all fours, cheek pressed to the comforter, and turned to the side, he begs him.

Realization. He’s gonna lose his virginity on a dirty Power Rangers comforter in the mildew scented back room of the Bodega.  To his cat.

Epiphany on the other hand is something light, something airy, sweet like cotton candy at the summer festival, it’s a joy.  Epiphany. He’s going to lose his virginity to his very best friend, to someone that he loves very much.

If getting into the case was torture, crossing the dingy black and white checkered linoleum is hell. Chan tries to walk, undo his belt buckle, and hold onto the lube at the same time, accomplishing none of them particularly well.

“Finally.” Claws dig into the thick denim of Chan’s jeans. Minho makes short work of his pants, dragging them down around his ankles.

Realization again. Heavy and awkward, that Minho’s got his lips wrapped around his dick before he can even process what’s going on. Epiphany. It’s better than he’s ever imagined. Minho’s lips are soft and stoke the warm dangerous flames in his stomach higher and higher. Minho’s tongue is rough, almost, but not quite, to the point of abrasion.  Minho gives him a delicious friction that’s so much better than his own hand. When Minho pulls back on his cock and he strokes his tongue against the ridge of Chan’s cock, it takes every ounce of power that Chan can muster to not blow his load right then and there. 

Minho’s purrs, soft and constant feel like waves whose power dissipate by the time they reach the sand. Careful, Minho i intends to be so careful with his claws, but he can’t help but become reckless the more that he sucks. He scrapes down Chan’s thighs, and then grasp for his ass.  

Minho’s constantly adjusting and readjusting. All it takes is one hiss of pain from Chan, and Minho releases him. Then Chan’s moaning and rocking his hips into Minho’s mouth, and then Minho’s tightening his grip all over again.

Chan’s always been a talker. It’s how he can make it through even the driest of open mic nights. It’s how he can charm himself into upgraded tickets for the show, and charm his way out of speeding tickets when he takes the Honda out to the point.

So, when the words just start flowing he doesn’t question it. It’s not that much different from things he’s said to Minho before, but now? Now each syllable pounds like a drum, cinnamon red hot embarrassment, into the shell of his ear. “Good kitty-ah-“ sharp inhale and he’s stuck somewhere in ready to pop space between realization and epiphany. “Minho, that feels so good.” And, “Minho, you’re so sweet. Good boy.”

Chan’s grip tightens in Minho’s hair. As if Minho already knows, Minho pulls back. Chan’s cock slides out of Minho’s mouth inch by inch until Minho pulls off completely with a pop. A long, silver strand of spit connects Minho’s blush red lips to the tip of his cock.

As Chan’s last two braincells fight for dominance in his head to say something, _anything_ : sexy, cool, lame, pathetic, Minho bathes the tip of Chan’s cock in softer licks that make Chan feel drunk.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you?” Something finally comes from Chan’s mouth in a long drunken slur.  Of course, it retains none of the calculated swagger that he’d hoped for. But Chan ruffles Minho’s delicate ears anyway. Shoots him a lopsided grin that he hopes doesn’t look stupid.

Minho pulls back again, and Chan watches the familiar chaotic slide of Minho’s pupils, blown wide to pinhole narrow. “Yeah,” and now Minho’s voice sounds like he’s been raked across the gravel and glass in the alleyway.

Chan discards his pants and sinks down onto the comforter. Minho tugs at the hem of Chan’s shirt, and just like that, Chan’s naked. Then, for the very first time, he gets to really touch Minho in ways that are _more than_ stolen brushes of his lips against Minho’s neck in the brief moments between being awake and being asleep. No, this is something real.  Minho’s stomach flutters with every touch and his breath hitches with every sloppy kiss that Chan places on the back of his ear and his neck. When their lips finally meet again it’s just as sloppy and just as desperate as when they kissed out in the alleyway. Except for now, Chan can hook his fingers in the abandoned leg hole of Minho’s underwear and pull them the rest of the way down.

Forget every PornHub url Chan’s got buried in his bookmarks under a tab innocuously titled “recipes”, it’s the most obscene thing Chan’s ever seen. Sharp howls are offset by soft, vulnerable mewls. Blush dusted across his chest, Minho stares at Chan with wide expectant eyes.  

Minho’s cock pulses against each pump of Chan’s fist, and with each pulse, Minho leaks another pearlescent bead of pre-cum.

Chan knows that Minho wants to be fucked. He knows that Minho stopped sucking him off for that reason. But he also knows if Minho cums, he will get _so_ sensitive. It doesn’t stop Chan. Better yet, Minho doesn’t stop him either. Chan pumps his cock over, and over again, twisting on the way down, and tracing the raised line of skin along the ridge of his cock.

“Do you like that?”

“Yeah—”

“What do you like about it?”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Another moan is torn from his lips, and Minho’s claws clamp down onto the very arm that works his cock. “That you’re gonna—that I’m gonna—cum.” Then, Minho pulls his legs up towards his stomach. He kicks at Chan’s arm, but never hard enough to knock him away.

When the kicking and the clawing still, Minho’s spilled into his hand.

Minho makes a soft squeaking nose that Chan swears he hasn’t heard since Mino was a kitten. Chan can feel the vibration from the deep rumble of Minho’s purrs. Minho takes Chan’s hand into his own, and slowly laps the cum from his hand, and there’s a joke in there somewhere, about the cat that got the cream.

When every bit of cum is lapped up, Minho lets go of Chan’s arm and turns onto his stomach. “Chan?”

Seamlessly, Chan slots himself between Minho’s thighs, and pulls him upward. Minho’s cock is still hard. Like he didn’t even cum at all.

“Cha-an…” Minho’s voice is slow and slurred. He looks at Chan over his shoulder like he did before when Chan was fumbling around for lube, wild and unhinged. This time, Chan can see the glint of the red blue  of neon light, and the reflection of the Marlboro display in his pupils. “I still need you to fuck me.”

“Good,” and it comes out cocky and strong, like someone who knows what they’re doing. Except, with that single syllable, all the confidence that Chan had left is used up. Even though Minho’s the one who has cum, Chan feels like he’s the one who’s been laid out and strung up. Chan’s hand slides over sweat dampened skin from the small of Minho’s back, around his hip, and rests upon the firm flesh of his ass.

Can’t catch his breath, can’t hold a thought between his ears for the roaring sound of his own heartbeat that drowns them all out, so he just acts. His fingers into the soft flesh and stares slack jawed at the indentation. He grabs the base of Minho’s tail and lets the long rope of fur slide through his fingers.

The scratchy cry that’s torn from Minho’s throat is window shaking, knock the bottles off the counter, make the nosey old lady that lives in the apartment above the Vietnamese restaurant call the cops, _loud_.

“Minho!” But Chan doesn’t stop what he’s doing. No, he continues to wind Minho up, patting the skin at the small of his back, just where the nodules of his spine meet his tail. “Be quiet.”

“My heat,” and it’s impossible to take Minho’s venom seriously when he’s looking at Chan upside down, grinding the crown of his head into the comforter “Isn’t going to end until I get fucked.”

And it’s kind of cool and kind of scary to hold that much power in his shaking hands. Chan fumbles for the bottle of lube, pops the cap, and pulls Minho’s tail to the side. In that moment, a thousand horrible thoughts race through his brain. Cause he’s never done this before, and what if he cums right away? And if he does, what if it isn’t good enough for Minho?

But, he’s not going to know if he doesn’t even try. He spills lube down the crack of Minho’s ass and stares in wide eyed wonder at the way his finger slides right inside.

Minho is deceptively tight, and clenches around him so hard.

Chan works his finger in as deep as it will go, curls and uncurls his fingers, until Minho’s cries dissipate into soft uneven breaths. Then, he slides in another finger. It’s tighter this time, and it earns him another wail, high pitched and desperate from Minho.

“Minho,” Chan runs a soothing hand down Minho’s back and scratches the fur at the base of his tail until he’s purring and pushing back against his fingers. “Kitty, it’s okay. I’m here. Okay?” Chan scissors his fingers apart and Minho’s body draws them tightly back together.

Chan keeps talking to Minho all the while, “you’re doing really well Minho.”

And he can tell that Minho’s calmed down when he fires right back. “I haven’t done _anything_ yet Chan—”

 “Okay, okay okay.” It’s now or never. Chan’s fingers slide out slowly. Minho’s claws catch on the comforter, get pulled free, and scratch at the metal shelf.

Chan, doing his very best to surreptitiously put lube onto his cock, spills half the bottle down his own thighs and onto the comforter. He pushes in slowly, but Minho’s got other plans. Minho arches his back lower, raises his ass higher and impales himself on Chan’s cock.

“Damn, Min-ho.”

Minho is impossibly tight, but his body…This body that defies all logic, twisting into strange shapes, and slipping through spaces that it absolutely shouldn’t, greedily pulls Chan’s cock in deeper. Minho’s tail swats lazily from side to side, and in the snapshot glances that Chan gets in-between, he can see the way that his hole twitches around him.

Minho gasps, “can I tell you something?” Now it’s Minho’s turn to do the talking.

Chan grunts something like, but not quite, _yes_ , in response.

“I’ve wanted this for a really long time.”

All of a sudden, Chan feels like all the mice that Minho has caught underneath his palm, swatted about, but never killed. Honestly, he never knew that being at someone’s mercy could be so nice.

“Minho—”

“Ser-“ Minho interrupts himself with a gasp. “Seriously.”

Minho usually brings out the very best in him, a smile on his face when he’s pissed off. Now? He’s wadded up Chan’s self-consciousness and thrown it out into the alleyway. The pace that Chan sets is fast, to the point of being reckless, but in that moment, he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if he cums too soon, doesn’t matter if he’s being rough with Minho.

This is the kind of greed that occurs only when you’re finally allowed something after a long, seemingly endless road of denial. For a moment, it becomes impossible to separate the animal from the man.

The noises that Minho makes are earsplitting, but Minho isn’t in pain, and he’s not telling him to stop. Quite the opposite, as he knocks over every container on the shelf, and cries so loud in pleasure that Chan has to clamp his hand down over his mouth…the neighbor will call the cops if she finds out. 

Chan wraps his hand around Minho’s cock once more. He can feel it coming in the way that his stomach tightens.

Minho’s cock is so wet with precum that it slides around in Chan’s firm grasp. He can feel it coming in the way that Minho clenches tight around him.

Chan can feel it coming. His vision tunnels, and everything is reduced to the blinding white heat that is Minho.

* * *

Afterward, Chan pops the tags off of a pair of leggings they keep in the back aisle by toothbrushes and overpriced socks, and Minho slides them on. Despite having cum twice, Minho’s still hard. Chan gives him is large oversized hoodie to wear. Somehow, they manage to make it onto the train and survive the agonizing four stops to the apartment.

Minho’s skin still feels feverish. As the train rolls through each stop, in the back of Chan’s mind he knows that all it would take is the slightest of touches to get Minho mewling for him again.

Everything has changed. When the train car is crowded, Minho grinds against Chan unashamedly.

Nothing has changed. When the train car empties at the transfer station, Minho bolts down the length of the empty train car at the sight of something shiny. When the train lurches forward, Minho falls forwards and bumps his head on the plexiglass divider between cars.

Everything’s changed. Chan kisses his temple to make it feel better without second guessing himself.

When they get home?  Chan tells Minho, “let’s take a shower, you smell like trash.”

And Minho’s teasing, “let’s take a shower, you smell nasty like cum.”

Just like that, they’re fucking again. He’s got Minho pressed against the glass of the shower stall. One hand clamped against Minho’s mouth to keep him from waking Mom, the other wrapped around Minho’s cock.

By the time they’re laying together in Chan’s bed in well worn t-shirts, Chan’s cum so many times that he can’t get hard again. He’s fingered Minho so many times that his wrist aches and Minho’s cumming dry. But the only proof that anything changed at all are the scratches across Chan’s hips, and the dark purple bruises on Minho’s neck.

“Did you mean it?” Chan peels open the wrapper to an ice cream sandwich taken from the freezer at the store, bites the corner, and then offers it to Minho. They’re not in the right position for this at all, and there’s almost a guarantee that Chan’s going to end up with melted ice cream dripped down his arm.

“Mean what?”

“That you wanted it,” Chan sucks in air and talks too fast. “For a long time.”

Minho doesn’t take the ice cream. Instead, he laps at the ice cream part, leaving the cookie behind for Chan. “Yeah,” Minho responds simply.

“Me too.”

Minho stops shoving his face into the middle of the ice-cream sandwich and laughs. “I ran away to deal with my heat alone,” Minho pulls back and rubs the ice cream smeared across his face with the back of his hand. Of course, it gets smeared everywhere.

Chan tentatively pinches the soaked and sticky wrapper with the very tips of his fingers.  The husk of the ice cream sandwich makes a satisfying _thunk_ when it hits his trashcan. “Why?”

“I kind of figured…That you wanted it too. You talk in your sleep you know?”

Chan had no idea whatsoever, but it’s too late to feel embarrassment.

Minho explains himself plainly. “Who the fuck dates their cat?”

“I see stories about it all the time on TV.”

“Yeah, on those shitty daytime talk shows you watch during your shifts. ‘I married my barn cat.’ It’s a spectacle.”  

Minho’s face distorts in dissatisfaction when Chan takes his thumb into his mouth, and smears the damp pad of his finger across the ice cream spots on Minho’s face.

“You’re disgusting,” and it would be a lie if he said he didn’t feel nervous as hell when the words tumble out of his mouth. “But, um. Yeah. I like you a lot.”

* * *

They say that it’s strange in hushed tones under their breath. Mrs. Kim still tries to set Chan up with her granddaughter. When Chan finally has the money to move into an apartment all on his own, no landlord in town will rent them a space with carpet. But in the end, it all works out. They find a place with hardwood, and Minho loves to slide across the floors on the balls of his sock feet.

 Their downstairs neighbors, Sohee and Sumi, bring ‘extra’ loaves of bread that they keep baking, and say that they should go on double dates. When they order takeout, they get extra fried wontons in their bag free of charge. The drycleaner offers Chan a huge discount when he inevitably brings his shirts in every few months for repairs from the numerous claw holes that work their way into the fabric. Mom buys them a porch swing for the balcony and sets it up when Minho and Chan are at work.

Absolutely everyone in the neighborhood has their opinion of Minho and Chan.

“Oh maw-ghad,” Minho sits on the floor behind the counter on the Red Power Ranger comforter wedged into the space between the counter and the back office, with his legs spread wide. It’s right where Chan needs to be to get the broom and dustpan. “Look-“ Minho shovels popcorn from an unpaid for bag of SmartFood into his mouth. Little bits of popcorn spraying from the corners of his mouths. “At these freaks.”

Chan squats down behind Minho. As Chan leans into Minho, he reaches into the opened bag of popcorn. “You’re kinda gross Minho.”

“Hey!” Minho leans forward against the weight of Chan’s body.

Looking up at the television screen, Chan sees a man in the middle of a talk show stage, flanked on either side by two calico cat girls. The television is on mute, but the closed captioning banner slides across the bottom of the screen. “We were happy, just the three of us, and then he cheated,” and then the camera pans to a third cat, an old man gray tabby with liver spots on the inside of his ears.

“He’s really hot,” Chan says while chewing with his mouth open. “Like here I am with you, and I could be with him.”

“I hate you so much Chan.”

Everyone has their opinion of Minho and Chan, and of course, Minho and Chan have very, very good opinions of each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @missbluniverse on twitter. Come for the fics, an STAY for the shitposts.


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